


The Priest and the Warrior

by EluWrites (DeanC)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Clayson, Immortals, M/M, Undeadwood HoliGay Exchange 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:20:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21898801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeanC/pseuds/EluWrites
Summary: My Undeadwood Discord HoliGay fic for the lovely Atlas <3Hope this works for you  ^^Also, many thanks to Ronan for the sketch at the end <3Matthew and Clayton didn't always have those names, but they've known each-other a very, very long time.
Relationships: Reverend Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Comments: 3
Kudos: 35
Collections: Yee-Hawligays Undeadwood Fic Exchange





	The Priest and the Warrior

**Author's Note:**

  * For [savage_starlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/savage_starlight/gifts).



A motley crew of strangers, that's how the group had started. He caught Clayton Sharpe's eye and the two exchanged the barest of amused looks. He'd had to turn away, never good at keeping his thoughts from his face. He was gladly distracted by one Al Swearingen's comments regarding the church and settled into feigned naive bewilderment to cover himself. It wasn't a particularly hard cover to relax into. 

True, they'd gone their separate ways in this western frontier for a time, their reunion having been just the night before. There was no one in the wide world he knew as well, or knew him as well, as Clayton 'The Coffin' Sharpe did. Their history went far, was settled bone deep. Soul deep.

  
_He remembers before, when his lover wore armour and carried a sword and shield. When he was a priest to the god of the underworld, and they spoke Greek together. When they loved and shared pomegranate seeds together, and whispered prayers in the darkness. When their faces still matched their years. When he prayed to his lord to bring his warrior home safe. Had pledged to serve and worship for a thousand thousand lifetimes if this one boon was granted._

_He remembers they got older, but their faces didn’t change. His lover, the warrior, gained scars, but never lost his life, even if he should have. When people started asking questions, looking closer, growing concerned. He remembers when they ran, how they’re still running._

They both first rode horses before saddles were invented and were as comfortable on horseback as they were on two feet. Afterward he wondered just how much hubris had to play with the both of them coming off and watching the stampede take their animals from them. On helping each other up and get moving, they finally got a chance to speak briefly, Matthew glad to get a hand on his lover. He knew both would be fine, but concern was automatic after such a spectacular failure on both their accounts. And perhaps he wanted another excuse to hear the soft drawl Clayton had affected currently.  
  
“Well that was embarrassing…”

“It surely was, darlin’. You hurt?”

“Bruises, maybe some cuts. You?”

“Just fine like always. We’ll talk later, yeah?”

“Mh. Love you.”

  
The last comment won him a hidden wink and again he'd had to hide a grin as the two parted to share horses with the women in their group. He could tell Clayton's trepidation at trusting the high-blooded Mrs Whitlock and her sidesaddle, but trust he did. Miriam's confidence easily bolstered him in his choice.

  
_Another memory of a much colder place to the north and a people at once more and less refined than the ancient world they had first met in. For them, death was a woman who lived in a dark place, half alive, half rotten. No more libations and songs, but chants and blood sacrifices and runes. Magic. In the night time, he still murmured his prayers to his own underworld lord, trusting them to keep he and his warrior alive._ _  
_ _  
_ _His warrior learned new ways as well; gone were the discipline of the phalanx, instead a shorter sword and a smaller shield and his own wits alone. They fought like animals, he said, but it was enticing. They both went a little feral in those days, and their lovemaking left scars sometimes._

 _  
_ _  
_ Corpses and endless endless snakes, the smell of blood and smoke in the air. He was glad his warrior was there with him, his love’s bravery carrying him to investigate the body. Even in the oldest of their experiences, they’d seen nothing like this before. He was easily able to be honest when admitting he’d seen nothing like this on Earth. Fear was not an emotion either of them had felt for a long time, but he could tell Clay was as tense as he was.  
  
Of course, when asked to anchor his warrior, there was no question he could, or would, do so. That was until the snake corpse was thrown up, and the ground started to churn. How he didn’t call out for his true lord of the deep earth, he wasn’t sure, but ending up on his backside on the sand, with these snake creatures up close was a surprise, to say the least.

  
  
_They both hated England with a passion. The people, the weather, even the food were dull and grey. They missed the wildness of the north, at least the chill in the air helped you feel alive. They left after a couple of decades, making their way across the water to France. It wasn’t entirely much better, but at least the south coast reminded them of their origins with it’s warm summers. The language was prettier as well, smooth and flowing._ _  
_ _  
_ _Here they’d ended up brought into a knightly order, ended up defending a city in the country of their birth. They thought little of it at the time, as they were able to serve side by side. His warrior was surprised how well he took to the sword and shield._ _  
_

Matthew had always enjoyed watching his warrior fighting, especially considering how good he was at it. Shooting at snakes was perhaps not the best way to handle them, but a kill was made. He’d not imagined, none of them did, what would happen next. He remembered the black spots, sharing a glance with Clayton, before all went black.  
  
That darkness, that void, made him wonder whether finally someone had come to take the pair of them. He feared that the thin being approaching him was Charon, come to take them to the Styx and beyond. But no, this was entirely a more modern spirit, one that dealt in cards and gambling and visions, ones it seemed had given them all a shared image of a burning church. 

_He remembered later, when the question of whether they could get ill was answered. Whatever it was that he’d caught made him burn up as if he was about to catch fire. His Warrior tried his best to help, to find doctors, to keep him cool. The heat gave him visions that remained clear in his mind ever since._ _  
_ _  
_ _A burning building, endless running from something they aren’t entirely sure is there, toward somewhere they did not recognise. His warrior was beside him, staring at him with a mix of horror and love. Loud noises that he knew not how to describe, endless red sand, screaming horses and his warrior torn apart and scattered to dust. As he slowly fell toward consciousness again, his warrior reformed and closed his eyes gently._

Waking to the pit now devoid of snakes, to the group entirely shaken and uncomfortable and plagued by their own visions. As surprising as it was to see his warrior take off someone’s head, he had to cover his sudden amusement by feigning disgust at the action. It just seemed so absurd to go from such entirely esoteric disturbance to something so entirely visceral. 

He should have known that as he started to relax as Miriam directed their horse toward the town and the lights shone in the darkness, he should not have gotten so comfortable. He only resisted the second darkening of his vision a little this time, intent to let it roll through him.  
  
“How do you want to dispel your hate?”  
  
Coming to himself again, he immediately sought the gaze of his lover and stared. He supposed that Clayton was seeing the same thing; the blue-green haze, the glow of power, the sudden energy in both of them. His arms ached to reach for his warrior, fingers tingled to feel the other’s flesh warm beneath them. 

_Once he had recovered, they had gone traveling then, back to what remained of their homeland of so many centuries before. The people had been welcoming, glad of the money they paid for food and lodging, glad that they spoke the language fluently, if with a few old-fashioned words or sounds. He found his temple, and the pair of them spoke to their patron, the lord of the underworld and the pomegranate, of death and the earth._ _  
_ _  
_ _He hadn’t expected anything to happen, and what did happen was simple and subtle. No sudden voices, no visions, simply a feeling of gentle gratitude, of a promise made and kept between deity and devoted, of approval of the love they shared. They smiled at each other then, embraced each other. Vowed that never would Priest be parted from Warrior, so long as they continued to draw breath_

Matthew rarely got to see his warrior fighting, using skills long practiced though only relatively recently learned in the case of using his guns. Even more rare was the chance for them to fight side by side against something that chilled them both to the bone. The dead walking wasn’t something either had seen before in their long lives. 

With the newfound power thrumming in his veins, he decided to make use of it, even if the name he called out to wasn’t the god who owned his spirit, it was still an idea and ideal he believed in. He sought Clayton’s gaze as he let that power loose, and it thrilled and scared them both. New things for old men were always a mix of these feelings and this time was no different.

_After returning to Greece, they wandered eastward, following the ancient roads toward where the sun rose, finding wonders no one from their homeland had seen in generations. Hot, wet lands full of people and languages to meet and learn. Lands where they pretended to be brothers, to be friends to avoid punishment._

_Eventually they headed west again and found old places reborn again, a renaissance of thought, art and religion, whole new stories to learn and sights to see. They risked England again and found it, too had been renewed, a new society to explore._

_  
_ _  
_ Finally, with Miriam’s insistence on sleep, he and Clay got a moment. He knocked quietly on the gunslinger’s door and was let in and immediately dragged into a pair of strong and mildly shaking arms, holding him tight. He held back just as fiercely, squeezing Clay. As always, the arms of his Warrior were where he felt most at home, most safe, and he knew the feeling was mutual. Gently, he drew back first, looking over the man he held.  
  
“Are you alright?”  
“Yeah, that was fuckin’ weird though…”  
  
He frowned, nodding, perturbed.  
“The walking dead, those snakes, that apparition calling itself The Dealer. Never in our long lives have I ever seen anything like that.  
  
The Warrior matched his frown, lips pursed, concerned.  
“Me neither. I saw you usin’ it. Good idea coverin’ by claimin’ it was God or somethin’. And there’s me, missin’ every damn time.”

Concern softened to a gentle smile and he leaned to kiss Clayton’s forehead.  
  
“You'll hit next time, love. Let's sleep.”  
  
Grumbling softly, the Warrior nodded, separating from his Priest to block the door with a chair once more. They curled together and ended up making love, slow and gentle, their passion for each other long since tempered by time, and in this instance, reminding them that both survived.

  
  
_England treated them well, but as always, questions began to be raised; how did they remain young? Where did their fortune come from? Who were they? As always, the answers were the same, and answers they could never share. Time was drawing close for the two to move on to new lands._

_They heard of the New World, an expansive land across the ocean to the west, a place of opportunities and big enough to get lost in should they need it. A land as old, if not older, than the one they’d been born to, a place to make a new start. They took a ship within the week._

The following day, after reporting their findings and consulting with the town doctor, the priest headed with the group to the graveyard. Under his breath, he murmured tidings to their patron, hoping the lord of the underworld still had their backs. Old habits truly did die hard. This was likely why, when the priest ended up in one of the graves, his panic was only skin deep. He easily caught the smirk of his warrior as he was helped from the pit after investigating.

What was found ended up disturbing on many levels, however. The strange fog, the disturbed graves and the tell-tale hat left in the empty coffin. For all the priest played at being teetotal, such a situation got him begging around for a drink. The slip of character meant his lover had to look away to hold his own character. 

“Reverend? I’m sorry to be this curious and this forward, but is there anything we don’t know about you as a man of the cloth, perhaps something that you haven’t shared with the general public? There seems to be something different about you, different than the rest of us unfortunates.”  
  
It was a struggle to easily get the words out, feigning innocence and confusion on the situation, the stuttering adding credence to the situation. When Fogg changed the subject, he was never so grateful of losing the spotlight on him. 

_Arriving at the port had been easy enough, as had finding a caravan to join with. It was only on the road when they had needed to start getting their stories together. Long conversations into the night helped them construct a story that was believable and remember it, ensured they didn’t answer differently when asked about things. An easy routine they’d followed before._

_Investing in goods, a wagon, horses, they made their way west from the port, deep into the country they now called home. For the first time, story settled or not, both found themselves wanting to explore different areas, to try out different territories. As much as it tore at them, they parted, saying their farewells and taking different forks in the road. Neither slept well for weeks after parting, but soon life caught them in it’s flow and drew them into it’s deeper currents._

Following the trails of clues, to the doctor’s office and finding it empty save for more snakeskins, the worry of the group was echoed in glances exchanged between the two. Among friends or not, they missed being able to reassure each other as much as they would wish. The tension only increased at seeing Farnahm and his many, many snake bites among a wealth of evidence within the office. Oil, coercion and land ownership.  
  
“The river never stops flowing.”  
“No it does not, reverend.”  
  
Again they ended up separated, the warrior heading off to protect and guard as he always did, following after Miriam to the brothel. In truth, it warmed the priest to see it, seeing his lover get involved, their acquaintances take that step closer to friendship. Both of them knew it was a place the warrior felt best. Instead, the priest found himself seeking knowledge of Farnahm and the strangeness around him. 

_The priest ended up taking a direction he had not thought to, that of a soldier himself, joining up at a fort in a war that wasn’t his, but which he felt drawn into. It was a different kind of fighting, less personal, more skillful and louder. He learned what bullets entering flesh felt like, felt the thrill of the chase, the heady exultation of battle, and the depths of defeat. He managed to keep himself alive, keep those he lead intact. Until one day, he woke and saw the truth of it: this was not glorious as he had thought. It was ugly and bloody and nothing he wanted any more. He’d kept up letters with his warrior, and left to find him._ _  
_ _  
_ _The warrior kept moving, finding work where he could, speaking to people, learning this new land and letting it’s dust, it’s soul, become ingrained into his skin. He changed names a few times, found work both legal and not, even found a lover briefly, though it was not the same as with his priest. Never the same. Name changed and fled again, he’d had to shoot his way out of a situation he regretted. The last letter from his priest mentioned a town, and he made his way there, seeking the familiar once more._

 _  
_ _  
_ Gunshots down the main street of Deadwood brought the group back out from their meeting with Al Swearengen and face to face with yet more of the walking dead, this time gunning down the innocent citizens, and followed by Arabella’s sister. Another gunfight, all of them taking their turns at shooting two familiar, yet unfamiliar, beings. 

Once more it thrilled the priest to see his lover fighting, though his attention spread through the rest of those fighting alongside them, to make use of his own skills, of the power they all found themselves in possession of, even in light of dealing with an ungrateful hooplehead trying to take advantage of the attack.  
  
What affected him most, however, was the rush of power flowing through him as it was turned on the undead form that was Wild Bill Hicock. That he was bereft of words after was understandable. 

_It took a little time, a little study and some money to secure the right clothing, but becoming a priest in the weird west wasn’t all that tricky. He knew the work, even if the god and the hymns were not quite as familiar as others. It was good to get back to what he knew. It wasn’t long before he heard tell of a town in need of a preacher after the last had been run out._

_Before heading out, he sent a letter to the warrior, letting him know where he would be, how the town of Deadwood sounded like an interesting place. Perhaps a place for the two of them to find each other again._

“I think… we need to go back to the pit.”  
  
Arabella’s quavering voice informed them of a message she had been given from that slender spectre, the Dealer. The priest and the warrior met their gazes upon this realization, feeling the rightness of such a thing; returning to where things had begun. Supplies were needed, as all agreed. The priest was wary of using explosives, but the group seemed determined to end things decisively. He couldn’t fault the sentiment.

On the way, he shared the unusual experience of conducting a funeral twice for the same person. This time, hopefully, for good. With loose ends tied, the group continued on into the night to the pit of snakes and gore, Miriam supplying yet more explosives for the cause. 

The silhouetted figure of Doc Cochran stood by the pit surprised nowhere.

_Matthew had decided he liked Deadwood, as odd as it was. Sure the church needed a lot of work and the people were far from the most pious, but they tended to keep to themselves and pay quiet lip-service to his sermons. It reminded him a little of his home. All paid heed to the lord of the underworld, few could say they actually loved him._

_Clayton wasn’t sure what to make of Deadwood, a place without actual laws, just a lawman and a rich man keeping control of the place, or so he heard. The burned out church was extremely evident even from the other side of town. Once the sun had set, he headed for it and knocked on the door._ _  
  
_

For all the mythological stories of their youth about giant snakes and gorgons and such, nothing prepared the pair for this three-headed snake man, let alone their new companions. Flashing tongues, flailing heads, claws and yet more of the smaller snakes churning up from the ground. Definite nightmare fuel for all concerned. 

It seemed fate was on their side, however. The explosives did their job, the Warrior’s guns flared to life, and the Dealer’s gifts were put to good use. Eventually the beast fell and moved no more, Doc Cochran breathing his last. It had cost them, all of them, their blood, their strength, and for some, parts of their soul. 

_The door opened and he found himself face to face with his Priest once more. It had been a long few years apart, exploring this new, massive country separate, seeking for new experiences and sights. The way they stared at each other showed that no matter how far they’d gone, right where they were was home, so long as the other was there._ _  
_ _  
_ _He was dragged inside and the door closed and pushed against it, his arms ending up filled with priest as they held on. Matthew murmured against his neck._ _  
_ _  
_ _“We aren’t parting for that long ever again.”_ _  
_ _“No, we sure ain’t.”_ _  
_ _“I mean, I’ve got a load of stuff to tell you about… but I’d rather have seen it with you.”_ _  
_ _“I get you darlin’, don’t worry. Got stuff to tell you too.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _They spoke long into the night and into the next day as well, curled together in the priest’s bed, re-learning each other’s bodies and sharing all they’d seen. All felt right with the world._

 _  
_ _  
_ With the dust settling around the body of Doc Cochran, the group made their way back to Deadwood. Questions were asked of backgrounds and abilities, and the Priest had to share a little of himself, telling only of his experiences while separated from his Warrior. His relief at the lack of judgement from the group was honest at least. 

Their walk into the Gem Saloon was all but a triumph with glasses lined on the bar, waiting for them. After a toast, they headed up to see Mister Swearengen. The explanations took a while and more whiskey, though eventually were completed and payment promised downstairs. The group minus Aloysius made their way back down to their full rewards. 

Priest and Warrior met eyes and exchanged smiles, silently promising to find some time a little later that night. 

_The next morning, the Priest fought off the clutching arms of his lover, laughing and smiling._ _  
_ _“I gotta get ready, Clay… got a sermon and a speech to give..”_

 _  
_ _  
_ “Reverend, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me and everything you’ve had to say. But I’m afraid this has nothing to do with you.”  
  
He wanted to scream that it did, that the Warrior was -his-, belong to him and his god, that this man with a gun pointed at his beloved’s head had no clue what he was doing or whom he was speaking to. But he couldn’t, and a glance from Clayton told him as much. This was down to the law of these lands, and there was little they could do to stop it. Even Miriam’s heartfelt words couldn’t turn Mister Fogg aside. 

In the street, the Priest could hardly watch the duel. They’d survived older weapons, disease and starvation, but he was not sure if their bodies could stand up to newer weapons; guns. Under his breath he murmured to his lord and master, begged for intercession.  
  
Bullets flew. He knew his lover wouldn’t shoot to kill. He knew that Fogg would. In the end, Clayton lay in the street, bleeding out, and Fogg re-entered the saloon and sought the salvation of sleep. 

He barely registered moving Clay’s body to the doctor’s office, the gentle touches of Miriam and Arabella at his shoulders. Their attempts at urging him to leave, to accompany them to the Bullock so they could grieve with him. He shook them off, told them no, waited for them to leave.  
  
He checked, one last, desperate time, for a pulse, for life. For hope. It slowly started to dawn on him that his love, his Warrior, was not waking. That he was alone. All he had left to do was follow the old rites; preparing the body, slipping a silver dollar for the ferryman under Clay’s tongue, and murmuring the old prayers, his mother tongue of scant comfort. 

Eventually, he sat back, finding a stool and sitting, watching over the body, still shell-shocked. He found one of Clay’s pistols in his hand and tried not to think about it, waiting for the sun to come up, to think about burial.

\--------------------

_Moments slid by the warrior, flashes of images, the murmured words of prayers, sunrises and sunsets, rain, sun. A soft, distant roll of thunder that dissolved into the rush of a waterfall and it’s river that eased into the soft waves of the sea._ _  
_ _  
_ _A voice like granite cut through them._

_“A Priest needs his Warrior needs his Priest. I am not done with you yet, and he is not done with his task. Stop him.”_

_  
_ _  
_ The thought of burying his lover had eaten at Matthew all night and the pistol had weight heavier and heavier in his hand.  
  
Clayton coughed and turned to spit out something that was stuck beneath his tongue to the floor. He couldn’t help the soft groan as the feeling of having been punched in both chest and head came back to him. The thump of something hard and metal hitting the floor nearby drew his attention. He looked to it, then to the man who had dropped it.  
  
“Good job you hadn’t fuckin’ cocked it..”  
  
Barely did the sentence pass his lips as he found himself engulfed in a man’s arms, all but squeezing the breath from him. He squeezed back nearly as fierce, ignoring the smell of coagulated blood from his clothing.  
  
“Don’t ever do anything like that again…”  
“I can’t promise, but I’ll be more damn careful next time.” 


End file.
